


unbelievable

by Skyuni123



Series: One-Off Media Ficlets [18]
Category: Olympus Has Fallen (Movies)
Genre: American Politics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Men Crying, Political Campaigns, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Post-Olympus, from recovery to something more.
Relationships: Benjamin Asher/Mike Banning
Series: One-Off Media Ficlets [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1108839
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	unbelievable

Two weeks. Two long weeks since he’d dragged the President, bleeding through his fingers, from the foyer of the White House and out into the embrace of the cool dawn.

Almost poetic, if it wasn’t for all the bodies lying around, and all the people they had lost.

Somewhere near 500 people, in the end. Staffers, civilians, people on the street caught in the crossfire. Horrors. 

So he did his dues, got patched up, and sat by the President’s bedside with Connor until Ben could sit up and move again without pulling at his stitches too bad. 

“Gunshots are hell.” He’d said, one day, when Ben had been wincing particularly hard, “I don’t recommend them.” 

Ben had just swiped a fist at him, which he’d neatly dodged - easier than usual because the President was still bed-bound - and shot him a dirty look. “I’ll get you back when I’m fighting fit again.” He’d sworn, but it was very obviously an empty threat. The President wasn’t quite as good at hand-to-hand as he was, but Mike hoped he’d get him close once he could properly walk again.

Gunshot not healed, but much better than it had been, the President had to go back to work.

Funerals. Endless, countless funerals.

Giving speeches, giving hugs, giving conciliations. Regrets, etched into his face. It was obvious it was weighing on him as he stood by another two graves - these, a father and a son, both working for his press team - a tear running down his face. 

Of course, the Republican pundits tore him apart for showing weakness, for being so close to the public in a time of struggle. They tore him apart for the event itself, the White House being taken, the loss of so many lives.

The public however - they found it almost movie-like. Almost  _ likeable.  _ The President hadn’t pulled such positive ratings from both sides of the fence in years. The right thought he was badass, the left thought he was compassionate. They both thought he’d handled things well.

Ben obviously didn’t think so. The slight downturn in his face every time the press team congratulated him on his headlines said enough. 

  
  


Two months after the event. In the gym together, getting back into their daily workouts together. Slightly lighter training for Ben, vicious cardio for Mike.

Despite the lowered training, the President’s covered in sweat after only a handful of reps. 

“Careful there,” Mike teases, halfway through a burpee. “You’re showing your age.”

“Get fucked.” Ben replies, and lowers his back to the ground again. “You try getting shot.” 

“I have been. More than once.” Mike says, and presses his nose to the floor. He’s only slightly puffing. “It passed through you. No major organs. Hardly counts.” 

“Hardly counts.” Ben shakes his head and lies back on the floor, breathing heavily. “Unbelievable.” 

“Hey, hey, we’re not done.” Mike continues with his set, looking over at his charge, a little concerned, as he does. It’s not the greatest focus, but honestly, he’s running this workout, so he doesn’t care.

“Yeah, I am.” The President puffs and drags a damp hand across his forehead.

“No.”

“Yes.” Ben’s tone turns sharper for a moment. More annoyed. “Lay off.”

Mike finishes his set, sits his ass on the mat and starts stretching out. At his age, it pays to be limber, and it’s only maintained through practise. Other guys mightn’t really be into that kind of thing, but for him, yoga works. “...You good, Sir?”

“Hurts.”

“Your muscles or your wound, Sir?” One’s easy. One’s expected. One he can fix. The other, not so much. The other is a problem.

The President doesn’t answer. For a moment, Mike wonders if he’s passed out. “Sir, you good?”

He doesn’t reply again.

Mike’s almost at the point where he wants to reach over and shake the man, make sure he’s cognizant and focussing, when the President says. “Everywhere.” And weirdly enough, his voice is thick with tears.

Ah. Emotion. Something he’s not amazingly well trained at. A lot of the problems in Mike’s life he can fix by hitting them. These things, these moments of vulnerability - they’re less easy. But Ben’s his  _ friend.  _ And he cares about him. So, he takes a second, and speaks up. “You’re still thinking about the White House?” 

“Hard not to.” 

Yeah, that’s true. Mike’s been in plenty of violent situations, dragged himself through shit and hell, but the White House still sticks with him. It had been a complete massacre. Bloody, brutal, vile. 

And he’d been afraid too, for a lot of it. Even if he’d not shown it. 

“Have you been sleeping?”

Mike knows before he asks that the answer’s going to be no. Ben doesn’t look great. Even ignoring the trauma from the bullet wound. The amount of makeup they cake on him for press conferences is enough to hide the bags under his eyes from the camera, but not from his security. He doesn’t look well.

“Define sleeping.” Ben huffs, edgily.

“You and I both know you’re not, so cut the shit.” Mike replies. He stretches one leg out long, and reaches towards his toes. His hamstring is a bit tight, so he releases the stretch and tries again. “What brought this up?”

The President grits his teeth and sits up, wincing in pain as his stomach pulls taut for a second, then relaxes. He leans against the wall, an odd mirror to the state he’d been in, only a couple of months previous, shot and bleeding out by the bunker in the White House. “Connor. He had a nightmare this morning that we’d both been killed in the attack and he was left alone forever. Scared him so much that he came running into my room at 4am.”

“Christ.” 

That kid - he’d seen so much in only a couple of years. Hardly fair, especially for such a good son.

“Yeah.” The President wipes down his face again. “And I got to thinking. What happens if something like this happens again?” 

“Then I’ll come and get you back again, Sir.” Mike replies, without even thinking. It’s a reflex, almost. The thought of seeing his President in danger and not doing anything to fix it - it’s unbelievable, at this point. 

“Yeah, but what if you don’t. What if you  _ can’t.”  _ The President stresses. “I can’t let him go to his aunts in Florida, those lunatics will eat him alive.”

“Sir?” Mike doesn’t really know what the President is asking. 

“Promise me you’ll take care of him.” The President says. 

“Sir..?”

“No. Not Sir, not right now.” The President drops his hand from his face, eyes red and puffy, and stares him down. “Ben. No titles, no obligation. I’m asking you. As a friend, as someone I care about and who hopefully cares about me-”

“I do.” Mike replies, though it’s obviously something that doesn’t need an answer.

“-if I get captured, if I get killed, look after him. For me. Please.” 

Mike drops his arms from his stretch, and shakes out for a moment. He slides across the floor to the President - to  _ Ben - _ and holds out his hand. “I can promise you, that much. If I can’t save your life, I’ll look after your son.” 

“Thank you.” Ben says, a little hoarsely, and they shake.

They both hold on a little longer than they need to. 

  
  


They’re out jogging, a month, maybe two months later. It’s a cool spring day, they’re maybe four months out from the election, and everything is going remarkably… well. Considering.

In the scheme of things, it could be worse. There’s not been any threats on Ben’s life in a while, and Mike isn’t hungover, or bruised, or in pain. It’s a good morning. 

Ben even seems happy and well-rested, which is a nice surprise. The lines under his face have smoothed out, making him seem younger, and healthier, and less like a president who’s suffered a terror attack within the first few years of his presidency. 

It’s a good look. Mike lets his look linger, just for a moment. The President’s fucking hot, and there’s so few opportunities where he doesn’t look stressed, or under pressure, or with a faux face for the cameras. 

The President catches his gaze, for a moment, staring straight back at him. He looks as though there’s a question, just resting on his lips, but they both let it sit there, let the moment hold.

Which is, of course, when it all goes to hell.

There’s a loud bang, a minor explosion nearby, and a scream. 

The nearby guard stands in front of the President, weapon drawn, scanning the area.

Mike immediately takes stock of the situation, seeing nothing in the nearby area, and drags the President down behind a thick stone wall near the edge of the park, using his palm to keep the President’s head from hitting the wall. He taps his earpiece, “Comms. Explosion heard in the vicinity. Request immediate evac.” He surveys, eyes darting about, looking for the source of the trouble, while keeping the President pressed to the ground beside the wall.

Which is exactly when the President begins laughing. Chuckling, deepily, heavily, into his shoulder.

“What.” He demands, still surveying. 

“Kids.” The President whispers, breath very close to his ear. “By the pond. Look.”

It takes him a moment, to pull away from the warmth and embrace.

Mike squints, and is almost taken aback by what he sees.

There’s a group of kids, all huddled around several massive fireworks tubes. Some of them are lit. None of them seem to be immediate threats to the President. As he watches, another one explodes into the air, creating absolutely no colour or light - as it’s the middle of the day - and fizzes out on the ground. 

A little sheepishly, Mike relays his apologies to Comms, then clambers up off the ground. He offers a hand to the President, who is still chuckling merrily away, like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen in years.

“You need to shut up.” Mike says, though there’s not really any malice in it. 

Ben takes the offered hand and pulls himself to his feet. He overbalances, a little, and nearly ends up stumbling into Mike’s chest. 

Mike stabilises him with two hands on his shoulders, and looks down at him for a moment. No contusions, no dilated pupils - just a stumble, and that’s definitely for the best.

The President blinks, for a moment, but doesn’t move away. He looks… confused, a little. Or something else. He shakes his head, and clears his throat, “Sorry. Overbalanced. You know me.” He moves quickly away.

“You’ve gotta be quicker on your feet.”

“Yeah, shut up, old man.” The President takes off running, with the other Secret Service guard trailing after him. 

Mike shakes his head, wondering for a moment if he should do something about the kids with the fireworks, and then ignores it. “You’re older than me!” He yells, and sprints to catch up.

He can’t quite stop feeling the warmth of the President’s shoulders under his hands, and his hair against his palm. It sticks around for the rest of the run. 

  
  


Election night, and it’s a landslide in their favour. Another term of Ben, another term of policies that help the American people - it’s unbelievable. The electoral map hasn’t been so blue in years.

“Even Georgia went blue!” A drunk staffer choruses, absolutely fucked up, in his ear. She stumbles against him, splashing a mojito all down his shirt.

He nods along with her and pulls her in the direction of one of the sober minders to keep an eye on. Alcohol is all well and good, especially when he’s a little bit alone and sad - the divorce hadn’t gone so well - but he’s not in the mood for it tonight. Plus, he’s working. Technically. It’d be against protocol. 

He looks around the party, noticing Connor in the corner seeming like he’s having a great time with some of the other kids of the members of the staff. Connor spots him looking and gives him a thumbs up, waving a juice mocktail at him. It’s bright blue and has a curly straw.

That kid’s going to be bouncing off the walls sometime soon.

However, it seems harmless, and there’s plenty of sober adults around to keep an eye on him and the other kids, so Mike keeps on looking. 

Some other staffers catch his eye and invite him over, with lingering glances and long, perfectly-tanned arms, but he can’t do it. He begs off with a simple couple of hand gestures, and looks some more.

The President is nowhere to be found. He’s not unduly worried, they’re in the White House after all, and there’s really no way to disappear, especially on a night like this without someone noticing, so Mike steps up to the security guard on the door.

“The President?” He asks. 

“Went to bed.” The guard says. “Jeff went with him. Said he wasn’t feeling up to partying tonight. Don’t know why, tonight’s been incredible for us _.  _ I couldn’t believe it…” 

Mike thanks him, then tunes out the rest of the idle gossip. He doesn’t really care about the political side of things. Yeah, there’s a lot of policies that benefit him, and he’s pleased about it all, but the actual minutiae of this election is very, very boring. 

  
  
  


Jeff is standing outside the President’s bedroom when he arrives, looking bored out of his mind. He straightens significantly when Mike glares at him. 

“Sorry, sir.” He says. “I was just- I wasn’t expecting anyone, and the party… I know I can’t drink tonight because I’m on duty, but it was so fun...” 

He’s only about twenty-one, and Mike knows he’ll get absolutely nothing done when he’s so out of it. “Go back, find someone who genuinely doesn’t want to be there and get them to swap with you. I’ll be here in the meantime. Might go in and talk to him too. Tell that to the next guy, alright?”

Jeff nods, looking like he wants to run off in glee.    
  


“Oh, and for the love of God, don’t get Brian.” Mike says, “He’s almost as much of a loose cannon as you are. Todd or Jason, preferably. Okay?”

“Yes sir.” Jeff nods, and walks off down the corridor, really quickly. He turns, nearly stumbling over. “Uh. Thank you, sir! Thanks!”

“Just go.” Mike rolls his eyes when the younger guard turns away. Hopeless.

“Thank you!” Jeff calls, from around the corner.

_ Hopeless. _

He knocks on the President’s door, gently enough that it won’t wake him, but loud enough that he’ll hear it if he’s still awake. 

There’s a moment or two, and then, “Yes?”

“It’s me.” Mike says. Then, “Are you- how’s things?”

It’s a weird question, because the situation is weird. The President likes parties, likes spending time with people, likes the conversation and the moment. This is strange for him.

“Fine.” The President replies, muffled from behind the door. “You can come in, if you want.” 

“Okay.” And Mike opens the door and goes in.

The President isn’t in bed, though he looks ready for it, dressed in a dark grey shirt and tartan pants. He’s pacing, a little, a glass of whiskey in one hand. The material of the pants is tight around his thighs, all the muscle they’ve built together making itself known. 

Mike directs his gaze back to the President’s face. He doesn’t look sad, exactly. Annoyed. A little like a live wire, just waiting to be touched. He takes a seat. “Thought you’d be living it up at the party.”

“Didn’t feel right.” The President says, and yes, that’s a slur. 

“How many of those have you had?”

‘

“Hardly any.” The President replies, and tosses back the whiskey like it’s nothing.

Mike winces, both for the quality of the whiskey, and the strangeness of the gesture. “You sure?”

“Mhmm.” 

“Thought you’d be causing havoc on the dance floor.” That one’s true. The President is a terrible dancer, but he likes to do it. Especially when he’s drunk. 

“No.” Ben replies, slurring a little more. “All the cocktails… They were a little too much. I couldn’t.” 

“Fair enough.” He takes a seat in one of the leather-bound seats by the window. “You want to come and have a seat with me, Ben? I’ve even got water.” He picks a pitcher off the table, still chilled and with a few ice cubes rattling about within. “Probably for the best if you want to function tomorrow.”

“Not that drunk.”

“I know.” Mike says, though he’s fairly sure he disagrees. “Still would be worth sitting down, though.” 

“Mhmm.” He says, but drops down into the seat opposite him anyway. He reluctantly takes the glass of water Mike pours him, but he doesn’t drink it. 

“Lots of people out there having a good time in your honor.” Mike says, “Looks like it’s quite the party.” 

“They deserve it.” Ben waves a hand, then drinks down half the glass of water in one go. “Good on them. So on.”

“You’re not in the mood?” 

“Not really.”

This conversation is going nowhere. He’d leave, but from the look on his face… - he’s fairly sure the President wants him to stay. “What’s going on, Ben?”

“Last election Margaret…” And he doesn’t finish his sentence, voice cracking, but it’s enough. It’s obvious.

Oh. 

His heart drops to his gut. Of course. No wonder the President’s been so uncharacteristic of late. 

His wife had been an amazing woman. Charismatic, unbelievably talented, and the nicest woman he knew. She had been a phenomenal First Lady, mother, wife, and one of the most talented lawyers on this side of the world.

Mike probably could have loved her too, if he’d wished. 

It’s no surprise that Ben is missing her. 

“A bit of a change from the last campaign.” He says, setting his hands down on his knees. He rubs at his knees through the fabric of his pants. What a mess.

“Something like that.” The President says. 

He won’t stop looking at him. It’s an oddly focussed gaze from someone so clearly intoxicated. It’s weird. It makes his skin hot. “If you want me to leave, I can-”

“Stay.” The President reaches for his arm, but doesn’t quite make it, his own hand dropping limply to his side. 

God, he’s really drunk. 

“Yeah, I’ll stay.” Mike settles back in his chair, pauses for a moment. “Is there… anything I can do?”

“Just… stay.” 

There’s silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable, just strange. The President looks a little like he wants to go back to his whiskey, but he doesn’t move.

When he speaks again, a few minutes have passed. 

“I feel so guilty. Every day. About…” He trails off again, looking sad and pissed off. 

“It wasn’t your fault, sir.” If anything, it had been his. But he’d been doing his duty, and no matter the consequences, he’d saved Ben’s life. 

“No.” The President raises himself up, steadies himself against the table. He’s trembling. “No, I-.. we’ve talked about Margaret. This… This is worse.” 

“Sir?”

He’s completely taken aback when Ben stumbles down, nearly falling wide, and kisses him.

Heat flares in the pit of his stomach, taking him almost by surprise. Ben tastes like the burn of the whiskey, and hot salt tears, and he wants him more than he’d ever realised before the moment at hand. 

But it’s not the right thing to do.

He pushes Ben back, guides him back to his chair.

The other man looks like a mess. Hurt, drunk, a little pale. It’s not a good combo. 

“I think you should go to bed.” Mike says, gently - far more gently than he usually is. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you want.”

“I know what I want.” Ben says, stubbornly, slurring terrible. “That’s the problem. I want you. I shouldn’t, but I do.” He blanches even worse, face growing pale. “I need you.”

And with that, he vomits all over his shoes. 

_ Christ.  _ What a night.

  
  


The President doesn’t mention it the next morning. Maybe he was too drunk to remember, maybe he deemed it something best to leave in the past.

Regardless, it doesn’t matter. Mike can’t get the taste of the other man off his lips. 

Fuck. It’s a problem. It’s really, genuinely a problem.

He could have averted the whole thing by saying no. By stopping it. 

But now, all he can think about is the President, their bodies pressed together, something hot and hard and warm and good. He needs to get over it. He needs to get laid.

He doesn’t do either of those things. 

He just goes to work, does his dues, looks after the President, watches for hazards, and comes home again. Drinks a bit much, sleeps worse, lets it pass him by.

He’s too goddamn old for a sexuality crisis, and too tired to deal with schoolyard bullshit.

No boxing today. Hand on hand. After the event at the White House, the Powers that Be had suggested that the President learn to fight a little more - just in case they ever fell into such trouble again. 

Mike had emphatically agreed.

Ben hadn’t, exactly, but he didn’t get much of a say when his doctor recommended that he needed to work on his cardio and his flexibility after his gunshot wound. .

He’s in an anxious mood, Mike can tell as soon as he enters the gym. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, in his gaze. 

Perhaps he’s remembered.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. 

“Guard up.” Mike nudges the President’s hands up so they flank his face. “Get into your stance.”

“I’m not really in the mood for this-”

“Too bad.” Mike says, sharply. “Keep your hands up. Tap out if it’s too much.”

Perhaps he’s feeling the tension too. 

Ben lands the first punch, a short jab to his kidneys that would leave him in a lot of pain if it had been strong enough. But it’s not. It’s hardly a tap. 

They spar, twisting past one another, blocking, dodging, barely getting any hits in. Mike knocks the President in the chest, wrestles him back against the wall, goes for his throat, but is thrown by another jab to his stomach.

It’s still too soft.

“You’re pulling.” Mike grunts. “Hit me. Actually.” 

“So are you.” Ben puffs. “If you want to punch me, just punch me.” 

He’s not, really, no more than he would for anyone somewhat less trained than he is. But he leaps back into the fight with renewed vigor, now the President is basically asking for what he gets.

They tussle some more. It’s not principled, exactly. It’s fiery. It’s taking the edge off, just, but something’s about to break. 

“Fight me.” Ben grunts, then lands a punch to his head that leaves him sprawling.

Mike stumbles to the ground, head spinning. It stings, a little. Hurts even more.  _ Shit.  _ Not a concussion, he’d know, but enough…

He fakes it, cries out in pain, makes it feel more painful than it is. Then, he stops moving. Just collapses back onto the mat, passes out - or so it seems.

“Mike?” Ben stops, sounding genuinely taken aback. “Mike?”

He leans over him, shakes his shoulder.

Mike doesn’t move. He just waits. Waits until Ben’s so close that he can feel his breath on his neck. 

He springs into action, opening his eyes and taking in the scene immediately. It’s as easy as breathing to slide a leg between Ben’s thighs and flip him over, pushing him back to the mat and down to the ground below him. 

He pushes Ben’s shoulders to the ground and holds him there with his body weight, one hand loosely grasped around his throat. 

Ben stares up at him, utterly without focus, clearly stunned out of his mind.

“I think I win.” Mike says, more than a little bit smug. He’s not annoyed anymore, just pliable and loose and warm. Fighting does that to him.

Ben takes a moment to find his breath. He licks his lips, voice dry, “Cheating.”

“Just because you don’t expect it doesn’t make it cheating.” Mike says, and squeezes a little tighter around Ben’s neck, feeling his pulse jump beneath his fingertips.

Ben’s eyes darken, deepen under his gaze. He gasps, a little, “If I knew you any less I’d think you were trying to kill me.”

“Who says I’m not?” Mike replies. He settles down on his elbows, pressure still on Ben’s throat. It’s too close, this. Too much. But he doesn’t want to stop.

And Ben’s not tapped out.

“I could kill you. Make off with the Presidency. It’d be the greatest coup this country’s ever seen.”

Ben snorts, giddily, his breath hot against his face, “No nose for politics.”

“Mmmm.” Mike shuffles about for a moment, enjoying the feel of Ben’s body beneath his. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know where this ends, but he’s going with it as long as it takes. “Can you imagine?”

“Mike…” Ben starts, looking hesitantly downwards, “I-”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” He replies, heart suddenly thrumming in his ears. “Tap out.”

“No.” Ben replies, breath coming out in little gasps. And it’s him that twists out of the neck grab, and him that reaches for Mike and pulls him down to his lips.

There’s no drunkenness this time around, nothing making them do this. It’s just the feeling of Ben’s body against his that makes Mike lean into it, drop the neck grasp and go for something closer, tighter, anything to give him  _ more. _

Ben doesn’t pull away, he knows what he’s doing. There’s fight in it, still, a heat from the workout, but it’s passionate, not angry, and Mike will do anything to live in it, feel it wash over his skin. He rolls his hips against the other man’s and is rewarded with a muffled gasp into his mouth.

“Fuck.” Ben breathes, pulling back for a moment. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely not, sir.” Mike replies, and yanks off his t-shirt. “Improvising.”

“Sounds like you.” Ben gasps, breathless, and drags him back down.

It’s perhaps not befitting of the highest office of the land to have frantic, sweaty sex on the mats in the White House gym, but it sure feels pretty damn good. 

They don’t work immediately. They have their arguments, laugh, fight, fuck and make up. They still have their pasts, their losses. There’s a bit of sneaking about, a bit of subterfuge, until one day Ben says, “One of us is going to have to change jobs. I would… but I suspect the American people might have something to say about that.”

“Always with the ‘American people’ excuse. Unbelievable.” Mike says, but puts in his transfer the next morning. It’s weird not being by Ben’s side in an official capacity, but he’s always at the White House anyway, so it’s hardly a change from his old job.

“Why don’t you just move in?” Connor asks, one day, as Mike’s heading off to work after breakfast. 

“I’m not sure if your dad would like that.”

Connor glares at him. “I’m not dumb. I know you two aren’t just friends. I’ve known that forever.”

“...Forever, huh?” 

Perhaps the kid had always been a little more perceptive than he ever had. “Tell you what. I’ll mention it to him.”

“Good.” Connor holds his hand out for a fist bump. “Tell him I think it’d be cool. He’ll definitely do it then.”

So he does.

And he does.

There’s bad nights, and good ones. Both Mike and Ben wake up with nightmares every so often. The press inevitably finds out, and jumps all over the story, but for the most part, it hardly changes things. Passing marriage equality in the first year of Ben’s term has its benefits, it seems. 

There’s bad nights, and good ones, but in the end, they’re both there to feel them.

That’s all that matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> dead fandoms dead fandoms we love to write for dead fandoms
> 
> check out mine [ tumblr ](http://eph-em-era.tumblr.com)


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